“Right. Phase two. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She straightened her back and pressed both palms flat against the tile. “What about the signature?”
The theft was the score. The exposure was the consequence. But the signature was the part Fallon cared about most—a specific item she planted somewhere the target would find it in public. A name they’d buried. A face they’d forgotten. Something small and precise that told them someone knew exactly what they’d done and had been close enough to hand them a personal reminder.
“Still researching,” Cassandra said. “This guy has hurt a lot of people. But I have a lead. One of the employees from that Ohio plant wrote letters to the SEC, to his congressman, to three different news outlets. Detailed letters, everything documented. None of them went anywhere. He died two years after the plant closed. Heart attack at fifty-eight.”
“Did he have family?”
“A wife and a teenage daughter. The daughter was sixteen when the plant went under. She would have gone to college on the pension money. Instead, her mom took a second job and the girl deferred for two years. She’s a nurse now, in Columbus.”
Fallon was quiet for a long moment. That man had done everything right. He’d written the letters. He’d followed the channels. He’d trusted the system to work. The system hadn’t worked. And Malcolm Prescott had bought a three-hundred-thousand-dollar sketch.
Fallon’s father had trusted the system, too. Different man, different crime, same ending.
“Find me something connected to the guy who died,” Fallon said. “A photo. A copy of one of his letters. Something that would make Prescott’s stomach drop if it showed up in his coat pocket at a charity dinner.”
“I’ll dig.”
The planning part of the call was done. Fallon could feel it in the silence that followed—the shift from working to just being on the phone together. Honestly Fallon didn’t know Cassandra all that well, despite trusting her completely. But she knew the other woman didn’t have many other friends. Neither of them did. That’s why they fit together so well.
She picked herself up off the tile, phone in hand, and walked to the window. Her knee objected on the way up, a sharp little reminder that the floor hadn’t been doing her any favors. Outside, a woman across the street was dragging a stroller up her front steps one thud at a time.
“Cass.”
“Yeah?”
“How are you doing? Real answer.”
A soft exhale on the other end. “Today’s okay. Yesterday was bad. I couldn’t get out of bed until noon, and even then I mostly just migrated to the couch and stayed there until dark.”
“Did you eat?”
“I had soup. And some crackers. Don’t mother me.”
“I’m not mothering. I’m asking.”
“You’re asking in your mothering voice.” Cassandra paused. “You absolutely have one, before you try to deny it. It’s the same voice you use when you’re about to tell me I need to drink more water.”
“Do you need to drink more water?”
“See? There it is.” Cassandra let out a short laugh. “You know I’m just going to turn it around on you. Have you eaten anything today besides that sad deli soup?”
Fallon opened her mouth and closed it.
“That’s what I thought,” Cassandra said. “We’re both disasters. At least I admit it.” Her voice softened. “I’m okay, Fallon. Really. I’ll have a run of good days soon. I always do. I just have to wait the bad ones out.”
Fallon leaned her shoulder against the window frame. The glass was cool against her arm. “Call me if you need anything. Even if it’s two in the morning and you just want someone to complain to.”
“You hate being woken up.”
Fallon chuckled. “I hate a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I won’t do them. Especially for you.”
“Go unpack your apartment. Set up your second monitor. Stop sitting on the floor. I know you’re sitting on the floor.”
“I’m not on the floor anymore.”
“Because you just stood up.”
Fallon almost smiled. “Go drink some water.”
